


Remembering What I Always Knew

by KitCat_Italica



Series: Unexpected, But Long-Awaited [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Memoir By Anthony J Crowley, All the banter, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Banter, Best Friends, Best Friends in Love, Coming Untouched, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling, Deepthroating, Dinner dates, Drunken Banter, Enthusiastic Consent, Facials, Fluff, Giving Your Best Friend A Fantastic Blowjob, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recently-Established Relationship, Sweetness, Wing Grooming, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitCat_Italica/pseuds/KitCat_Italica
Summary: Before Crowley knew what was happening, Aziraphale stood up on tiptoe, cupped his hands around Crowley’s nose, and gently blew into them to warm Crowley’s face up.  “Better?”“Mm,” said Crowley.  Then he grinned.  “I think my lips are cold, too.”Aziraphale’s smile was joined by a raised brow.  “Really?”“Yeah.  You’d better check, just in case.”“You know I can see right through your ploys.”“No, really, feel…”Their first kiss of the night landed amid matching giggles.OR, Crowley and Aziraphale continue their adventure through The Tender Joys of Romantic Friendship—and are reminded of the trust, safety, and belonging that brought them to this point.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Unexpected, But Long-Awaited [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740151
Comments: 14
Kudos: 138
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Remembering What I Always Knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not fully happy with this, but seeing as I've been working on this fic for *checks watch* EIGHT MONTHS, I need to get it out into the world and move on before I go crazy.
> 
> It was originally supposed to be a oneshot like the first installment, but we're now nearly 12k words in and only 1/3 of the way done, so I broke it up into 3 chapters. Crowley may not be good at talking sometimes, but apparently he has a lot of words in his head!
> 
> I put a feeler out on Tumblr but no one's bitten yet, so if anyone here would like to help me out with beta'ing the rest of this fic, I'd really appreciate it!
> 
> I hope you enjoy what I have so far :)

Crowley had inhabited many roles in his existence. Some had been more fun than others.

Being an angel had been alright. Awesome job perks, like being closer to God. Some cool assignments here and there. But there were some jerks up there in Heaven who pretended to be righteous, the music was dull as shit, and it turned out that the Big Boss didn’t like being questioned. 

She could’ve warned him before She blew him out of Heaven’s nostril into a hanky of boiling sulfur, but hey. That’s how life goes sometimes. Ineffable plans and all that.

Being a demon was a bit more interesting, in both good ways and bad. He liked causing a bit of trouble from time to time. But working for Hell was still a job, and between his nastier assignments and even nastier coworkers, it wasn’t the career path it was cracked up to be.

So, he’d stayed on Earth, out of their direct supervision as much as possible, and found his pleasures where he could. Fortunately, Earth was full of pleasures. Better music, great food, wonderful _wonderful_ alcohol, clever machines and fascinating stories and quaint little towns and sprawling cities. All built by those beautiful, appalling, frustrating, incredible creatures called humans.

Of course, Earth had another pivotal thing going for it in Crowley’s mind: it was where he’d met the most important person in his existence. The Principality of Eden’s Eastern Gate; wielder of a flaming sword; bookshop-owner extraordinaire; avid fan of Shakespeare, Schubert, and strawberry sherbet.

_Aziraphale._

Beautiful, appalling, frustrating, and incredible were also apt descriptions of Crowley’s best friend. He was easily the best angel the Heavenly Hosts had ever produced, wanting to do good entirely for goodness’ sake rather than for corporate deadlines. He was also fussy, ridiculous, exacting in his high standards, and the only thing he loved more than helping people enjoy life, was enjoying life himself. 

Crowley wouldn’t have him any other way. He loved the impossible angel, and though he didn’t often admit it, loving Aziraphale brought out the best in himself.

All in all, between the human-tempting and the Aziraphale-loving, Crowley’s time on Earth was easily the best time of his existence. And during that time, he’d had several essential truths woven into his infernal being:

He knew he wasn't a conventional demon. 

He knew he was kinder than he could ever let on about. 

He knew staying on Earth was his best chance at survival. 

He knew he could trust Aziraphale. 

He knew he was safe with Aziraphale. 

He knew he belonged at Aziraphale's side.

He'd known all these things for so long. But over the first year following the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t—the first year of him and Aziraphale finally expressing the romantic side of their friendship—the universe started dealing him an awful lot of reminders about the latter three.

xxx

In the first post-Apocalyptic February, the reminder was about trust.

Crowley didn’t like the cold. It was the one thing that sometimes made him consider abandoning England altogether for the Cayman Islands. (Not to mention it would be nice to check in on the tax haven he’d had a hand in setting up.) But he hadn’t tired of London yet. He’d set up a good life for himself here in the last few centuries.

Despite the cold, he was in a good mood. He’d had a thoroughly refreshing night’s rest. (Well, more of a morning and afternoon’s rest, really.) From there, he’d devoted a few hours to general demon-ing about—miracling car keys inside the owners’ locked vehicles, vanishing away every left shoe in an entire apartment complex, that sort of thing. Some things were worth braving the cold for.

Especially the final item on today’s agenda, and the biggest contributor to his good mood: dinner with Aziraphale.

Their table at the Dorchester was tucked away in a corner, so the other diners would need to look closely to spot them. If anyone had, they would’ve seen the oddest pair. First, there was the upright, cherubic-faced man who radiated light and probably collected antique snuffboxes. (Which, yes, he’d had that phase, only they hadn’t been antiques when he’d purchased them.) Seated next to him was the slouching, skinny ginger who melted into the shadows, dressed as if his best punk goth days were still ahead of him. (They weren’t.)

The candlelight on their table cast a bizarre dance of light and shadows around them. It was the sort of private atmosphere that invited talk of illegal business transactions, underhanded political deals, or the inner workings of secret societies.

Their current conversation, therefore, must’ve been a disappointment to any eavesdroppers. “For the last time,” said Crowley, “a sunrise is _the exact same thing_ as a sunset. Just in reverse.”

“My dear fellow,” said Aziraphale, “as much as I respect your considerable intelligence, I would be remiss not to inform you how _appallingly incorrect_ you are.”

Crowley was already smirking halfway through Aziraphale’s verbose rendition of _No, you._ “Enlighten my considerable intelligence, then. How are they different? Besides the obvious one-goes-up-and-one-goes-down…thing.”

Aziraphale had to finish chewing his next bite of foie gras crème brûlée. Crowley waited. Finally, Aziraphale swallowed and said, “One”—he gestured with his fork—“signals rest at the end of a long day. The other”—there went the fork again—“refreshes the body and spirit for the day ahead. One”—the fork twirled in the air—“prompts one to seek shelter; the other”— _twirl_ —“beckons one out of shelter, now that the danger has passed.”

“First of all,” said Crowley, “plenty of people like going _out_ at sunsets. Ever heard of nightlife?”

“A shelter in a club or concert hall is still a shelter, my dear.”

Dear Someone-With-More-Power-Than-Crowley, who said _concert hall_ anymore? “More to the point, regardless of what feeling you get from a sunrise, you’re still looking at a sunset on rewind. Waking up just to see the inverse of something you’ll be awake for later…it throws off your circadian rhythm.”

“You’re a demon, you don’t _have_ a circadian rhythm.”

“Well, what about sleep inertia? Headaches from waking up before the body’s ready?” Crowley pulled a face at the unpleasant notion. 

Aziraphale gave him an appraising look after he swallowed his next bite. “For all the trouble one must go to in order to sleep, you do indulge in it quite often.”

Crowley shrugged. “Perks of retirement,” he said, twirling his glass of Château d'Yquem Sauternes by the stem.

The remark did pull a grin out of Aziraphale. “Indeed,” he said softly. He lifted his own wine glass. “Our lives have certainly improved since we…handed in our resignations.”

Crowley scoffed at the phrasing. Yeah, flicking holy water and breathing hellfire at their former employers was one way to quit their jobs. Bit more dramatic than a standard two weeks’ notice.

He raised his glass to Aziraphale’s. “Yes, they have.” They clinked their glasses together, and drank deeply. 

After a moment’s silence, Aziraphale remarked, “You know, watching the sunrise was once an integral part of my job.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “When was that?”

“When I was guarding Eden.”

Shit. Crowley should’ve remembered that. “Ohhh. Yeah. Eastern Gate.” He popped the _t_ off his tongue at the end of the word.

Aziraphale shrugged. “Silly of me, perhaps, having nostalgia for the beginning of the world—”

“No, no, makes perfect sense,” said Crowley. “It was the, y’know, like you said. The beginning of it all.”

The secretive, bright smile Aziraphale gave him then was the same smile he wore whenever Crowley did something nice for him. Crowley realized a second later what it was for: _the beginning of it all._

__

__

Eden hadn’t just been the beginning of the human race. It had also been the beginning of _Aziraphale and Crowley,_ the business-rivalry-turned-romantic-friendship duet of the ages.

“D’you ever miss it?” Crowley asked.

“Eden?” Aziraphale tilted his head in thought. “In some ways. It was paradise on Earth, after all. And the humans had a certain innocence about them in those days.”

Crowley arched a brow as he swirled his wine around its glass. “Until they didn’t.”

“Until _someone_ decided to give them a choice,” Aziraphale corrected. “Which they made, and accepted the consequences thereof. And, well, for better or for worse…” He glanced around the dining room of candlelit tables. “…That choice did, in part, lead to all of _this.”_

__

__

Crowley slid his gaze over to Aziraphale. “Are you trying to say it was the right thing to do?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Heavens forbid I say anything of the sort.”

Crowley's mouth twitched too, in spite of himself. “In case you haven’t noticed, Heaven can’t forbid you from saying anything anymore.”

“Just as Hell can’t sanction you for doing the right thing,” Aziraphale replied smugly, before taking another sip of wine.

Crowley’s gaze lowered, his expression softened in contemplation. Between covering for Aziraphale’s assigned blessings over the years, and generally not having the stomach for more gruesome acts of evil, he’d been dancing toward the line of ‘doing the right thing’ for millennia. A dangerous position to be in, as a denizen of Hell. But with an embellished memo here and there, no one Downstairs had been any the wiser. No one had known.

No one but him, and Aziraphale.

Crowley’s eyes, as ever, were eventually drawn back to Aziraphale, as the angel polished off the last of his dessert with an obscene moan. For all his companion’s tranquility, Crowley knew appearances could be deceiving. He saw the God-given aura Aziraphale emanated, the holy power he could wield if roused to do so.

He’d seen that power at the beginning of it all. When coiled as a serpent in the Garden’s undergrowth, trying to figure out how to cause the sort of trouble Hell would be impressed with, he’d seen the back of the Eastern Gate’s guardian, standing on the ramparts up high with a flaming sword in his hand. Come to think of it, it had been _dawn_ when he’d first seen him. Aziraphale had eclipsed the rising sun, its light shining out from in front of him, wreathing his winged silhouette in blinding light. A true holy warrior of the Lord.

The only reason Crowley had slithered up to meet him after the whole apple business was because one, he saw the sword was missing; and two, the angel missing said sword had looked _worried_ as he watched the humans leave his care. Soldiers of Heaven followed orders, assured that the Divine Plan was on their side. They didn’t _worry._

__

__

But this angel had. So Crowley, curious creature that he was, had slid onto the ramparts to investigate. The rest, as they say, was history.

And yet, at any point during that history, this angel could have fully committed to Heaven’s will and smote Crowley where he stood. He could have doused him in holy water, or struck him down with his flaming sword. He could have informed Hell of Crowley’s bouts of goodness, and let the Dark Council take care of this wayward demon for him.

Instead, he’d helped Crowley keep his secrets. He’d sheltered him under his wing. He’d given Crowley the tools to protect himself—despite his misgivings about the methods of said protection. He had loved Crowley in every manner available to him.

And now, he sat by Crowley’s side as he always had, eating good food and drinking fine wine. Intending nothing toward Crowley but the protection, care, and love he’d always reserved for his best friend. 

Embodying exactly why Crowley trusted him more than any other being in Creation.

“Crowley?”

Crowley snapped out of his thoughts. He’d been staring at Aziraphale for so long that he’d failed to notice him speaking. “Wha?”

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth quirked up. “I asked if you would like to watch the sunset with me tonight. Since sunrises are apparently out of the question.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, glancing over the edge of his sunglasses to the nearest window, “I think that opportunity’s already passed us by.”

Surprised, Aziraphale swiveled to face the window himself. Nothing but pitch-darkness out there. “What time is it?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley glanced at his watch. “Almost midnight.”

Aziraphale still looked perplexed as he smoothed his hands over his coat. “I was certain they closed at half past nine.”

“They usually do,” said Crowley. He glanced around the restaurant at the oblivious diners and waitstaff. “They’re not entirely sure why they’ve stayed open this late tonight.”

The way he phrased that last sentence must’ve tipped Aziraphale off to what he’d done. The angel stilled, and spared Crowley a knowing glance. “How thoughtful,” he said softly.

Crowley shrugged one shoulder. “I’m sure they appreciate the extra income.”

“I wasn’t talking about the restaurant staff.”

That made Crowley look back at Aziraphale. He didn’t know it was possible for anyone to look at someone as fondly as Aziraphale was looking at him. The way he found himself smiling back, he probably didn’t look much better. 

Aziraphale’s next move was something Crowley had seen him do often of late: he placed his hand on the table between them. The most blatant invitation Crowley had ever seen. No wonder Aziraphale had been able to cover his end of the Arrangement so well; in certain areas, he was a natural tempter.

“Do you remember that restaurant in Constantinople?” Aziraphale asked. His eyes were so bright with the candlelight dancing in their depths. His hand on the table almost _shone_ in Crowley’s periphery. “The one with the most delectable honeycakes? They would always change which hour they closed each night, to encourage customers during the dinner rush.”

Crowley’s smile became a smirk. He covered Aziraphale’s hand with his. “They always had a table for us, though," he said. “And, they always had one more rack of lamb for your order.”

“And a jug of date wine for you.”

“For _both_ of us, angel. Half that jug was your doing.”

“That’s not what I recall happening in 984. You nearly fell under the table, you were so drunk!”

“And _you_ nearly fell down with me.”

On and on they went, for the next hour. Visiting old memories, bantering and teasing, softly laughing about it all. All the while, Crowley traced random patterns over Aziraphale’s knuckles.

The humans' movies and songs always talked about one’s heart racing when near the love of one’s life. But as Crowley sat at the secluded table in the Dorchester, his world contracted only to Aziraphale, their hands touching, and the candlelight flickering around them…he found his heartbeat slowing. The conversation lulled it to an easygoing rhythm, soothing and strong and full of _trust._

__

__

Some things were worth braving a London winter for. Dinner with Aziraphale would always be one of them.

xxx

It was just past one in the morning when they left the Dorchester, bundled in their wool winter coats, scarves, and gloves. Crowley longed for the spring thaw, when it would no longer be freezing-his-scales-off weather, but rather rubbing-his-arms-over-his-usual-blazer-while-complaining-to-Aziraphale-about-the-slight-chill weather. 

Whinging about the cold had been a common pastime for him over the years, which Aziraphale would grudgingly tolerate. It had given them each an excuse to seek each other out, shelter in close quarters, and spend a long evening in front of a fire with hot beverages.

Now, of course, they didn’t need excuses for their acts of love toward one another. So, rather than complain about the cold beforehand, Crowley wordlessly took the initiative to link their arms together.

“S’cold,” he muttered. Okay, maybe he would still whinge a _little._

__

__

“I’m aware, my darling,” said Aziraphale. For some reason, cold never seemed to bother the angel the way it did Crowley. Whether it was his divine grace heating him from within, or Crowley’s cold-blooded serpentine nature, Crowley wasn’t sure. What he _was_ sure of, was that it was downright unfair.

But without missing a beat, Aziraphale took Crowley’s gloved hand in his own, and tucked them both into his coat pocket. The action ended up tugging Crowley closer to his side—not an unpleasant consequence in the least. In an attempt to cheer him up, Aziraphale said brightly, “At least you had the foresight to park the car close by!”

Sure enough, the illegally-parked Bentley waited quietly for them at the curb a few yards away. Crowley’s flat was perhaps a four-minute walk from the Dorchester, and Aziraphale’s shop was maybe ten minutes further. But Crowley had insisted they drive here, for one simple reason: the Bentley’s interior was _heated._ Such clever humans, inventing more and more effective heating systems for their homes and vehicles. 

“Excuse me!”

Crowley and Aziraphale stopped and turned to the voice. It belonged to one of two women, both in perhaps their late thirties. Probably the taller, dark-haired one who was excitedly dragging her shorter, blonde companion by the hand toward them.

“Terribly sorry,” the dark-haired one said, her breath visibly billowing out as she panted. “I—that is, _we_ just wanted to catch you before you left. Just wanted to say…” She blushed, and gave them a radiant smile. “You two look _adorable_ together.”

Aziraphale lit up in a smile just as blinding. Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale was consciously squeezing their hands tighter in his coat pocket, but he wasn’t complaining. 

The shorter woman, meanwhile, was also blushing, but she looked more embarrassed about the situation than happy. “C’mon, Maddie,” she muttered, “leave them alone.”

“Oh, no, it’s quite alright,” said Aziraphale. “And I must say, the two of you make a lovely couple, as well.”

The comment prompted polar opposite reactions from the women. The dark-haired one beamed, and looked almost on the verge of joyous tears. Her shorter companion, on the other hand, looked anything but happy. She blushed even harder, ducked her head, and turned tail.

Maddie turned to where her friend _(friend?)_ was running. “Sarah—”

_“I’ll be in the car, Maddie!”_

__

__

Maddie’s face fell as Sarah ran out of sight, toward the garage of legally-parked cars. “Did I say something wrong?” Aziraphale asked.

“No, no,” said Maddie, “no, we _are,_ that is…” She sighed, composing herself. “This is only the third dinner we’ve had where we’ve been…y’know. _Out.”_ She shrugged. “She’s still not used to it.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened. “It does take some getting used to.”

Maddie smiled sheepishly, glanced down a bit, shifted her weight back and forth. “Did you know each other long, before you…”

Aziraphale clucked a giggle. “If we told you how long, you wouldn’t believe us.”

Crowley snorted.

Maddie laughed too, but she clearly wasn’t fully in on the joke between the two immortals. “Us, too. We met at uni, and were friends for so long, and now…” She glanced behind her, where Sarah had disappeared into the garage. “Well, I’d best be off. Goodnight!”

As Crowley watched the woman scamper after her girlfriend, Aziraphale murmured beside him, “Have a wonderful night.” An innocuous enough statement of farewell. 

And it would have been, if Aziraphale hadn’t snapped his fingers immediately afterward.

Crowley glanced around. He couldn’t see any obvious effects of the miracle. “What was that for?”

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Let’s get in the car. Your place, or mine?”

With that, he let go of Crowley’s hand, and hurried off to the passenger side of the Bentley. Leaving Crowley reeling in place like a leaf flailing in the wind, spluttering his confusion in various syllables.

“Mine?” was the word he finally arrived at, in an attempt to answer the question. After all, he _had_ been intending to bring them both to his flat after dinner. “Yeah. My place. Right.”

He joined Aziraphale in settling into the Bentley. “C’mon,” Crowley wheedled as he shut his door, “what did you bless them with?”

Aziraphale sat ramrod-straight, hands folded primly in his lap. One hand was fiddling with the other's glove. “That they will have a wonderful night,” he murmured.

Crowley froze, as he suddenly understood _exactly_ what kind of wonderful night Aziraphale had granted the two women. 

Slowly, glacially, he turned to Aziraphale, eyes wide behind his sunglasses, mouth agape.

Aziraphale seemed to be trying to glance at him, but he was too nervous to hold it for long. At last his tension spilled over as he said, “What? Sometimes it’s difficult for women!”

Crowley pulled a bewildered face. Of all the things Aziraphale could've blessed them with, he'd decided to go with… _that._

__

__

“If you say so,” was all he could think to say. He turned his attention to the Bentley; her engine rumbled to life with a flick of his fingers, her heater turned up full blast. (Some cars took their time blowing cold air through their vents as they warmed up their heating capacities. Crowley’s car knew better than that.)

As Crowley veered onto the street, Aziraphale wouldn’t leave the topic alone. “It’s not like there isn’t precedent for reproductive miracles—”

_“Reproductive miracles?”_

__

__

“What about Abraham and Sarah? Or Isaac and Rebecca? Even the Almighty’s own Son was brought to Mary through miraculous conception.”

“I don’t think those two are gonna be _conceiving_ anything tonight,” Crowley said, as he swerved to avoid an oncoming bus.

Aziraphale huffed. “I was only trying to help.”

Crowley’s usual public-facing scowl softened imperceptibly. The angel’s words brought to mind memories of repairing bicycles with extra gears, rescuing runaway baby carriages, filling struggling restaurants’ tills with extra cash. Discreetly healing wounded soldiers on the battlefield. Holding plague victims as they drew shuddering breaths. 

_Trying to help._ No better words summed up his best friend. 

However, this topic of helping people with sexual problems was now veering Crowley’s train of thought in a more concerning direction. “You haven’t done that before, have you?”

Aziraphale glanced at him, then back out the window as he considered. “It’s never occurred to me," he said, sounding almost surprised. "Humans don’t often bring up the subject in polite company.”

“I wasn’t talking about with humans.”

The air charged in the quiet as Aziraphale stared at him. Though he kept his appearance as cool and collected as ever, Crowley became more and more uncomfortable with the silence as it dragged on.

Aziraphale always tried to help. So what if, when Crowley was trying to provoke a particular… _intimate response_ …Aziraphale had resorted to using his powers to— 

He felt a warm hand on his thigh.

“My darling,” Aziraphale said softly, kindly. “You and I both know I’ve never needed a miracle for that.”

Crowley’s mouth twitched up. And, with the solid heat of Aziraphale’s hand on his thigh, something _else_ twitched up, too. He shifted in his seat, discreetly adjusting himself. How else was he supposed to respond, when Aziraphale had just told him in so many words that he was a fantastic shag?

“So,” said Aziraphale, “your place, then?” At Crowley’s nod, the angel asked in that feigning-innocence-but-totally-devious way of his, “Do you…have anything planned?”

Crowley’s half-smirk settled into a more permanent home on his face. “You know me,” he murmured. “Always planning something.”

“Oh dear, it's not an evil plan, is it?”

“Downright _diabolical.”_

__

__

Aziraphale shifted in his seat. Crowley glanced at him from the edge of his sunglasses.

He grinned. Turned out he wasn't the only one who had needed to adjust himself.

They spent the rest of the short drive in silence. Aziraphale’s hand stayed on Crowley’s thigh. Visions passed through Crowley’s head of exactly what he wanted to plan for their evening at his flat.

And the entire drive home, nothing could’ve wiped off their matching, wicked little smiles.

xxx

Forty-one seconds later, the Bentley screeched into its usual parking spot at Crowley’s building, next to the ‘No Parking Anytime’ sign at the curb. Four minutes and twenty-two seconds after that, Crowley was leading Aziraphale up the lift and ushering him into his flat.

They’d each done some redecorating in their respective abodes. There was more furniture in Crowley’s place now—mostly in the form of various chairs and a couple of black-cushioned leather sofas, increasing the number of seating options beyond the lonely old throne. Meanwhile, a flatscreen television had found its way into Aziraphale’s flat above his shop, as well as a few houseplants. (Crowley had spent a long evening lecturing the chosen ficus and succulents that moving to the angel’s shop was a _privilege,_ and punishments would be even more severe to match the stricter standards. So far, they were passing muster, as dazzlingly green as they were _petrified_ whenever he walked past.)

He and Aziraphale still had their own spaces, and time apart to pursue their own interests. But over the last six months, their lives had become more and more intertwined. With each new strand of this braid knitted together, the more Crowley felt like he could finally _breathe._

__

But tonight, his breath left him in a quiet shiver the second he hung up his coat. Even though he cranked up his thermostat to a balmy 25 Celsius this time of year, the weather’s chill still followed him inside. 

Off went his sunglasses, gloves, and scarf—though he took his time procrastinating on removing those layers. Aziraphale was way ahead of him, already down to his waistcoat. “Oh, you silly snake,” he murmured in sympathy. “Here.” He took Crowley’s bare hands in his, rubbing the backs of them to return the circulation. He added in a quick kiss to Crowley’s knuckles.

Crowley shivered again. This time, it wasn’t entirely due to the cold.

But Aziraphale wasn’t done yet. Before Crowley knew what was happening, Aziraphale stood up on tiptoe, cupped his hands around Crowley’s nose, and gently blew into them to warm Crowley’s face up. 

Such a domestic thing to do. And yet, in the last few months, Crowley had learned that the simplest, sweetest gestures were what made his unnecessary heart beat the loudest.

Aziraphale drew back with such a loving smile. “Better?”

“Mm,” said Crowley. Then he grinned. “I think my lips are cold, too.”

Aziraphale’s smile was joined by a raised brow. “Really?”

“Yeah. You’d better check, just in case.”

“You know I can see right through your ploys.”

“No, really, feel…”

Their first kiss of the night landed amid matching giggles.

Crowley hummed another laugh as they drew apart with a _smack_ of suction. “Y’see?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were shining bright with cheek. “I do see your point. I suppose I’ll have to warm them up.”

“Add it to your list of good deeds.”

And oh, their next few humored, playful kisses were _very_ good, indeed. The kisses after that were delightful, as well—while still languid and carefree, they were now punctuated by breaths that blurred the line between laughs and sighs. And the kisses that followed _that,_ with tongues sliding together, hands rustling over clothing as they clutched each other close…those kisses were positively _decadent._

__

__

Crowley was only aware he was walking them forward when his cock started brushing against his increasingly-tight jeans. Aziraphale followed his lead, until there was nowhere else to go, as the angel’s back met a wall.

And once again, that warm, reassuring _trust_ tapped Crowley on the shoulder. He shivered as it wrapped around him, as snugly as Aziraphale’s arms around his waist and neck.

Here they were. Aziraphale was letting himself be loosely pinned against a wall. Crowley was holding him, trading long, sweet kisses as he crowded his body against the angel. And Aziraphale? He was completely relaxed. He leaned back on the wall, sighed into the kisses, _clutched Crowley closer._

__

__

There was no rush here. They were almost lazy in how they explored each other’s mouths for the thousandth time. It occurred to Crowley how strange it was that he and Aziraphale hadn’t been indulging in this for centuries. Kissing Aziraphale was by now so familiar, so natural in how it fit into their relationship. 

And, so incredibly _fun._

__

__

And you know what was also fun?

Trailing kisses down Aziraphale’s neck, that’s what. So Crowley did.

Aziraphale sighed. One of his hands found its way to Crowley’s hair. They’d learned over the last few months that his scalp was absurdly sensitive: every gentle scrape of Aziraphale’s nails sent delightful prickles across Crowley's shoulders, down his back, to settle low in his hips. He shuddered, humming his approval into Aziraphale’s neck with every wandering kiss.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, sounding like he was trying to get ahead of his breath before he lost it entirely. “About this evil plan of yours…”

Crowley smiled into his neck. “The most wicked of all plans?”

“Yes, I do think”—he gasped as Crowley’s lips worried at that sensitive spot below his earlobe—“perhaps I should know the details, in case I need to— _oh_ —to thwart it.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Crowley murmured, “I don’t think you’ll _want_ to thwart this one.”

Even without looking, he could feel the pull of Aziraphale’s smile in the angel’s jaw. “And why is that?”

Crowley slithered his mouth up to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear. “Because it involves me putting your cock in my mouth.”

Aziraphale clutched Crowley’s waist closer to him with a breathy sigh. “And what else?”

Oh.

Crowley faltered. “Um…well, that was kind of the whole plan.”

“Oh.”

“Just, y’know…your cock in…in my mouth…”

“Oh, I see.”

Crowley pulled back some, to better see Aziraphale’s face. “Is that alright?”

“Heavens, Crowley, why would it not be alright?”

“I don’t know, we practice enthusiastic consent, I just wanted to make sure!”

Aziraphale smiled. It was that same soft, sweet smile that bloomed like a daffodil in the sun—or like whenever he heard about _a baby’s lovely little toesie-woesies._ “I assure you, dear,” he said fondly, “it could not be more enthusiastic if I tried.”

Crowley beamed. His next kiss was to Aziraphale’s lips, soft, open, and reciprocated in full. 

“No time to waste, then, is there?” Aziraphale murmured against his mouth. 

Crowley smirked. He could hear the undercurrent in the question; Aziraphale was starting to get _fussy._ What a treat.

With a flick of his fingertips, a miraculous chime in the air undid all the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and shirt. “I’m not wasting it,” he murmured. And with that, he ducked his head, and started kissing his way down Aziraphale’s front. 

Oh, but he loved this. Aziraphale was all softness, with a solid, powerful strength hidden underneath. Crowley had been drawn to it all since the beginning; now he could finally lavish it with all the affection Aziraphale deserved.

Not to mention how Aziraphale loved this, too. If Crowley’s sensitivities were his scalp and his shoulder blades, Aziraphale’s were his curves. His rosy nipples, the swell of his belly, the meat of his thighs and flanks—it all made him groan and sigh whenever Crowley groped a large handful, or traced a silvery stretch mark with his tongue. It thrilled Crowley to no end when he felt the flex of muscles under the wonderful squishiness of fat. 

He took his time, through the white-gold dusting of chest hair, down to the full stomach, past the navel they each only possessed for appearance’s sake. He pressed his face into his kisses, felt the heavy up-and-down of Aziraphale’s heaving breaths. Aziraphale’s hands never left his hair.

And then, two things happened which made Crowley hum in satisfaction. 

The first was that he finally sank to the floor. The stone dug into his knees, hard and grounding and delicious. The pressure always made his mind go fuzzy with pleasure. Not quite submission, but more like… _service._ He would never get on his knees for anyone but this angel. And he _loved_ kneeling before Aziraphale. 

The second was that he was now face-to-face with the bulge in Aziraphale’s trousers. He busied his hands with the zip—Aziraphale helped with the button—and finally, finally, _finally,_ Crowley drew out his best friend’s cock.

It really was a lovely specimen. Even though Crowley had been a virgin until a few months ago, you can’t spend six thousand years alongside the human race without seeing a few dicks. Aziraphale’s was of average length, but impressive girth, and fit the rest of him to a T. Seeing it hard and straining toward him always made Crowley’s mouth water.

Probably because, whenever he was staring down the barrel of it, he often did what he did now: pump it gently with his hand, and nuzzle his mouth along it with little kisses and licks, decorating the side of the shaft with his saliva.

Aziraphale’s hands stayed in his hair, petting Crowley’s scalp so lovingly as he lavished his attentions. Crowley arched into the caresses like a cat. Nearly purred like one, too. 

He stole a glance up at Aziraphale. The intensity of the angel’s adoration swept over him as he met that darkened, heavy gaze with his own. “My old serpent,” Aziraphale whispered.

And, well, Crowley couldn’t resist: “That’s a weird name for your own dick.”

“You—” Aziraphale spluttered, “—you are _obscene!”_

__

__

“Thought you liked when I was obscene.”

“What on Earth gave you that ide— _oh!”_

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__

Aziraphale’s sentence cut itself short, as Crowley swallowed down half his cock in one go. There was a _thud_ as Aziraphale braced himself with one hand on the wall behind him. 

Crowley decided to relent—but he took his sweet time with it. With the most sinful _“mmmmmmm”_ he could muster (and he was something of an expert in sin, after all), he dragged his lips back down the shaft, letting the head slide along his soft palate as the cock pulled out of his mouth. He flicked his tongue out at the end, creating a trough for the cock to slide on, until all that connected his tongue and the head was a string of saliva.

The whole time, he kept his eyes locked on Aziraphale’s. Between the naked lust in Aziraphale’s expression, and the rush of having just stretched his jaw around Aziraphale’s cock, Crowley’s own dick was _throbbing_ in his jeans.

But that could wait. Right now, his gratification from doing this with Aziraphale was on a par with touching himself.

Especially with Aziraphale petting his hair. “Well, go on then,” Aziraphale gasped.

Crowley grinned. The grin couldn’t last long on his mouth, as his lips had to stretch wide when he took Aziraphale’s cock back into his mouth. But as he started bobbing his head, the smile in his eyes remained.

And so, he started in on another installment of his favorite series: _Giving Your Angelic Best Friend A Fantastic Blowjob._

__

__

The first time he’d done this had been the first night he and Aziraphale had made love. That night, they’d thoroughly sampled the various acts possible between two male bodies. Aziraphale had come up with a list, and Crowley had been just as eager to try it all.

After they'd rested enough from the first round, Aziraphale had straddled Crowley’s hips, and proceeded to sink down and ride him like a bull. It had been, hands-down, bar-none, without any doubt, a Top Three contender for _The Best Sensation Crowley Had Ever Felt, **Ever.**_

_****_

_****_

Well…for twelve seconds, anyway.

Because that was how long he’d lasted.

He didn’t think he could show his face to anyone ever again, least of all Aziraphale. But after snarling at Aziraphale to _Shut up and stop laughing,_ and a bit of scolding in reply _(I was also a virgin the last round, and I managed to last longer than that!),_ Aziraphale had coaxed Crowley’s hands away from the beet-red mortification on his face, and gently reminded him that _The night isn’t over yet._

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Crowley had elected to continue the night by sucking Aziraphale’s dick so good, the angel screamed as he came.

Not bad, for Crowley’s first attempt at giving head. And he’d had plenty of practice in the months that followed. Of all the sexual activities he and Aziraphale got up to, this was easily one of his favorites. 

By now, if he did say so himself, he was a _master_ at sucking cock.

Tonight, he employed all the tricks he loved so much. He bobbed his head up and down, relishing how his lips stretched wide and swollen around Aziraphale’s cock, how his jaw started to ache from his efforts. He curled his tongue around his mouthful, loving how he heard Aziraphale’s gasps and quiet praises in sync with it. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, gulping saliva and salty precome down his throat, letting drool dribble down his chin. It was filthy, and he _loved_ it.

Judging by Aziraphale tugging his fingers harder in Crowley’s hair, the angel loved it, too.

Crowley spent a few minutes there, happily pampering Aziraphale’s cock with all the attention it deserved (it was a _very_ good cock, after all, attached to the only angel worthy of the name). He shifted slightly on his knees, just to feel the stone dig into him more sharply. He mentally applauded that interior design choice on his part. 

Not to mention another advantage the floor bestowed to this activity: the _echo effect._ Every time they did this here, his sucking and gulping noises were amplified in their ears, along with their heaving breaths and soft moans. _Fuck,_ if that didn’t make his dick harder in his jeans.

Aziraphale’s hands tightened in his hair _(fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck)._ “Crowley…” he breathed, “oh, Crowley, you’re so good, darling, you’re _so good—”_

__

__

Crowley released Aziraphale’s cock with a loud _pop._ “Thought we talked about that,” he rasped.

“What?”

“Telling the whole world.”

Aziraphale looked to still be gathering his wits. When he must’ve realized what Crowley was getting at, he smirked. (He had no business looking _that hot_ while smirking, Crowley decided. No business _at all.)_ “I’m not telling the whole world,” Aziraphale said softly. He stroked through Crowley’s hair again. “I’m telling _you.”_

__

__

Crowley raised his eyebrows, in an expression of _I guess, sure, fine, whatever._ Never mind that his chest grew warm at the words. 

But, that didn’t mean they had to stop, did it? So, he slid a sly glance up at his friend. “You want some more?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Whatever you wish to give.”

Oh, as if Aziraphale didn’t know what Crowley was willing to give him. If Crowley’s physics-defying powers included shrinking other objects in addition to himself, he would gather all the universe’s atoms in the palm of his hand, to present them to his angel.

Instead, he tried to convey this with the next-best method he could come up with: he slid Aziraphale’s cock back in his mouth. But then he kept going. Sliding his head forward, taking the cock deeper, and deeper, and _deeper._ Concentrating on opening his throat, nudging the head past his uvula. 

Aziraphale let out a ragged groan. 

Here came the best part. In theory, Crowley could alter his biology as much as he pleased. He could eliminate his gag reflex entirely. He could reshape his throat to be perfectly cock-sized. He could shut off his lungs and heart so he wouldn’t need to breathe.

But he _wanted_ to feel that slight resistance. There was something about managing deepthroating the human way that got Crowley’s motor going. Actual choking with something wrapped around his neck? Not a fan. But blocking his airway with Aziraphale’s cock… _fuck,_ that was something else.

He only stopped when his nose hit white-blond curls. Even then, he clutched onto Aziraphale’s hips, keeping them firmly pressed against him. He could feel the tops of Aziraphale’s thighs quivering in pleasure.

Crowley looked up. The moment he opened his eyes, they started to sting—an inevitable physical reaction to shoving something down the back of his throat. But through the sting, he saw Aziraphale. The look of slack-jawed _joy_ on the angel’s face nearly made Crowley come in his pants. 

Crowley swallowed around his throatful. Aziraphale choked off a small, high-pitched _“oh”_ of a moan. When Crowley swallowed again, one of Aziraphale’s hands left his hair, to caress his jaw instead. Feeling the movement of every swallow. _Fuck!_

__

__

Crowley pulled off a bit, just so he could breathe again with a slight “Agh.” But he quickly went back to bobbing his head, curling his tongue, sliding Aziraphale’s cock in and out of his throat. The whole time, Aziraphale’s hands stayed on his hair and jaw.

This time, the reminder of trust wasn’t a conscious thought in so many words—mostly because Crowley wasn’t in the headspace for coherent mental sentences, period. Instead, it was a feeling of warmth and sweetness and adoration, unfurling from his chest to spread through his entire body.

Perhaps more than any other intimate act, oral sex required trust. Mouths and throats and genitalia were all such delicate body parts. They could be so easily damaged if one party took things too far.

Aziraphale was trusting Crowley to not leave him hanging—and, more crucially, to not use his teeth. Crowley, meanwhile, was trusting Aziraphale to not shove inside his throat too harshly, to not hold him in position and force him to take it, to not suffocate him till he passed out.

Of course, it would never occur to Crowley to even consider doing such a thing. Nor would it occur to Aziraphale. They would just as soon use holy water and hellfire on each other.

And yet, the trust remained all the same. Just as it had for six thousand years.

Crowley sped up. He dug his nails into Aziraphale’s hips as he bobbed his head at a breakneck pace. His tongue was a regular da Vinci tonight with its patterns around Aziraphale’s cock. Over and over, Crowley sank the cock as deep into his throat as it would go, swallowing and almost-gagging with an obscene _gluh-gluh-gluh_ noise each time.

Aziraphale was clutching at Crowley’s hair and jaw—not controlling, just _frantic._ And oh, how he was moaning, how he was crying out Crowley’s name, breathlessly chanting how good he was, how good, how he was _so good!_

__

__

Crowley’s cock was throbbing, pounding, begging for attention. Without thinking, he rolled his hips forward. And _shit,_ his jeans were tight! The friction from the movement was just right: enough to relieve the pressure, but not enough to distract him from his task. 

It fit perfectly with the moment, so he kept doing it. He might’ve looked ridiculous, mindlessly rutting in the air while he deepthroated like a sloppy whore, drool rolling down his chin, involuntary tears pricking his eyes, the wet sounds of him gagging echoing in the room. But he didn’t care.

And from the sound of it, neither did Aziraphale. His moans were higher now, more desperate, hardly able to utter a coherent start of a word. He was getting close, Crowley could tell. He redoubled his efforts with even more gusto, slurping loudly around Aziraphale’s cock, ramming it down his throat, hollowing his cheeks to suck _hard,_ rubbing his own cock against coarse denim. _That_ was so good he had to gasp at the friction, so he pulled off Aziraphale’s cock for air. 

At that exact moment, Aziraphale came. He shouted his pleasure and spilled hot semen all over Crowley’s nose, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, and Crowley was coming, he was coming, he was coming and coming and _oh he was coming,_ bright like a supernova behind his eyes, the pleasure sharp and hot in his groin, roaring in his head as he groaned a lewd _“aaaggghhh”_ with his tongue still out, not even realizing he was still catching drops of Aziraphale’s spend.

It had caught him so much by surprise that, afterward, his brain was still trying to catch up to what happened. Still quivering with aftershocks, moaning softly, he collapsed back to sit on his heels.

A soft _whump_ indicated Aziraphale did the same. They just sat there for a few seconds, catching their breath. Each inhale burned through Crowley’s raw throat. He knew talking would be a challenge for the rest of the night.

Completely worth it, though. 

“Goodness, Crowley,” he heard Aziraphale gasp.

Crowley huffed a laugh through his nose. “Not what I’m usually known for,” he croaked. Shit, he’d really done it to his throat this time. His voice sounded like he’d rubbed his larynx down with sandpaper.

He suddenly became aware of the semen cooling on his face. Another aftershock shuddered through his pelvis as he noticed. He squinted open his eyes, and dragged two fingers through the mess on his right cheek. He smirked as he inspected its pearlescent gleam on his fingertips.

“Oh, I’m so—here,” Aziraphale said, suddenly flustered. He scooted closer to Crowley, and started wiping away the mess himself. Crowley would’ve pointed out that they could just miracle it away, but the caresses on his face were nice, too.

“I rather made a mess of you,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley grinned. “You did.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“You’re _what?”_ Crowley’s eyes darted toward Aziraphale. “Why?”

Aziraphale looked sheepish. “I didn’t exactly ask permission. But, wait…did you like it?”

 _“Loved_ it.”

Aziraphale’s face softened to something unbelievably tender. Crowley felt like he was _glowing_ under that gaze. (Okay, maybe that was just the semen still on his cheeks.)

Aziraphale miracled the rest of it away with a snap of his fingers. “How’s your throat?”

Crowley swallowed, testing its sensitivity. Shit, even that hurt. “Might’ve overdone it,” he rasped.

“Here,” Aziraphale said. He reached a hand an inch away from Crowley's throat. “May I?”

At Crowley’s brow-raise of a _yes,_ Aziraphale gently touched his fingertips to Crowley’s throat. Warmth seeped into Crowley’s gullet, almost like he was drinking a hot beverage, except it coated his entire throat instead of washing away.

He swallowed again to assess the damage. Oh, that was _much_ better. But at the back of his throat, he could almost taste…

“Is that peppermint?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s face brightened. “Something like it, anyway. Now, if you’re needing a breather, that’s quite alright, but if not…” He dragged his fingers down Crowley’s front, to rest above his solar plexus. “…How might I take care of _you?”_

__

__

Crowley spread his legs a little wider. “Already did.”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s lap. His eyes widened, as he must have noticed the damp patch on Crowley’s jeans. “You mean you—?”

Crowley shrugged with a smirk. “There’s advantages to wearing jeans this tight.”

Aziraphale burst out laughing. He was still laughing as he gathered Crowley in his arms, letting Crowley press teasing kisses to his temple. “You _ridiculous_ demon,” he giggled.

 _“You_ ridiculous angel,” Crowley replied. But he still met Aziraphale for a soft kiss. Ridiculous supernatural beings that they were.

“Y’know, I think I could condition myself,” Crowley said as they broke apart. “Make myself come every time your semen hits my skin. Really mind-blowing stuff.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “An endeavor for another night, perhaps. But as for tonight, did you…have any further plans?”

Crowley cocked a brow. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Aziraphale’s gaze wandered to the open doorway leading to the kitchen. Specifically, the kitchen stocked with hardly any food, but fully equipped with a wet bar that would’ve been the envy of any connoisseur.

“Is Dalmore Trinitas of any interest to you?”

Crowley grinned wide. “And you wonder why I trusted you with my temptations all these years.”

xxx

Dalmore was one of Crowley and Aziraphale’s favorite Scottish distilleries of the last two hundred years. Crowley had only made the journey to the northern tip of Great Britain once, but he had to admit the rugged beauty of the land did hold some appeal.

And, of course, there was the whisky.

The Trinitas was something of a private joke between him and Aziraphale. The distillers had blended their aged stores from different years, going as far back as 1868. The result was the equivalent of a golden nectar from the gods. (Or perhaps from the One Entity, if She approved of such things—which Crowley suspected She might, if only for Her private amusement at watching Her creations stumble around like the euphoric buffoons they could be.) And since humans liked things to come in threes, the distillers had created only three bottles of the stuff—hence the name ‘Trinitas’. Each bottle cost a small fortune.

But like the dinosaurs, the name ‘Trinitas’ was a joke the humans hadn’t caught onto yet. The joke was that there weren’t just three bottles of this Dalmore single malt in the world. There were five. 

The fourth bottle resided in a bookshop in Soho. The fifth had also resided there for a few years, before being gifted to a flat in Mayfair. But the name ‘Quinitas’ didn’t quite have the same ring to it (or the same connection to another Holy Trinity), so the humans had conveniently forgotten about the fourth and fifth bottles, and the name ‘Trinitas’ had stuck.

A human would save such a prize for a special occasion, inviting their closest friends and family to savor the brew. Crowley and Aziraphale did the same. Their closest friend, the only being they would consider family, was each other. And every moment they could spend together, without Heaven or Hell’s interference, counted as a special occasion.

Lately, they’d been opening this bottle nearly every weekend.

They didn’t rush headlong into inebriation anymore—life had taken a slower pace since they’d retired. But, drinking spirits instead of wine did make the process go faster.

The result was Aziraphale slouching on one end of a sofa like a still-warm stick of melting candle wax. Crowley, meanwhile, had given up the structure of his bones entirely, and splayed his limbs in a loose approximation of a human form across the rest of the cushions.

“All I’m…” he slurred, still trying to remember what words sounded like, “...all ’m…’m saying is…”

Shit, what _had_ he been saying?

Aziraphale glanced up from where he’d been studiously drawing patterns on Crowley’s shins. (They _were_ draped across his lap, after all.) “What was…what was that, dear?”

 _“BLACK WOLF!”_ Crowley suddenly shouted. He gestured wildly with his whisky tumbler, spilling a few drops of the near-priceless liquid onto the floor. 

A lesser being might’ve startled from the sudden outburst. Aziraphale—not at all a lesser being, and one who was quite used to his best friend’s drunken topic pivots—merely raised his brow. “Wolf?”

“‘S’not just a wolf,” said Crowley, “S’a _name_ of a wolf.”

Aziraphale stared into his own glass. “Not very imagi—ima—” He gave up on finding the right word, and downed another swallow.

“Point is,” said Crowley, “he was like…the _Casanova_ of wolves. Saw a thing on TV. He sneaks over to another pack, finds a female, helikeshershelikeshim, and ‘fore the alpha knows she’s missing, they…y’know…”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Clever fellow.”

“Had pups all over the place. Like that Chinese bloke, whassisname…” 

“Mongol. Genghis Khan.”

Crowley gestured with his glass again, this time at Aziraphale. _“That’s the bugger.”_

__

__

Aziraphale hummed into his glass. He seemed to get sidetracked for a second by staring at it, trying to divine its secrets, before suddenly blurting out, “Sorry, what was your point?”

“Right,” said Crowley. He, too, had gotten sidetracked, by staring at the pretty angel in front of him. “Mating on the sly.”

“What about it?”

Crowley threw back another swallow, savoring the smoothness of it down his throat. “Sounds familiar, dunnit?”

Aziraphale hummed absently at the comment. Then his eyes widened as he caught onto the implication. Crowley answered with his own smirk. 

“We weren’t _mating,_ though,” Aziraphale pointed out.

Crowley’s right foot had lost its shoe and sock at some point in the last hour. The left still had both in place. He moved the left one up to Aziraphale’s chin, poking him playfully with the boot’s pointed toe. “Not like you didn’t _want_ to.”

Aziraphale grabbed the offending foot. “Shoes off the sofa.”

_“S’my sofa!”_

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Aziraphale didn’t seem to hear him. He yanked the boot and sock off, placing them delicately on the floor. 

“Better not tickle me,” Crowley groused.

Aziraphale looked like he might be seriously considering it. Thankfully, he refocused on the conversation. “Imagine how angry they would’ve been.”

“If you tickled me?”

“If I— _no,_ you daft demon. If we had been… _mating on the sly_ all these years.”

Crowley chuckled. “They already…already wanted to kill us.”

They grew quiet. Crowley’s whisky-fogged brain was trying to arrive at some sort of conclusion, but said conclusion sounded like a sobering one, and he wasn’t ready to sober up just yet.

“You know what?” Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed. “You’re absolutely right!”

Crowley squinted. “M’what?”

Aziraphale turned to look him straight in the eye. _“We should have been fucking this entire time!”_

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They each erupted in giggles. 

_“How_ could we’ve been doing that?” Crowley laughed. “What if—what if they’d caught us?”

“You’re the imagin…imag…you’re _clever,”_ Aziraphale said. “You’d think of some excuse.”

“What, like I was trying to corrupt an angel?” He put on a mocking, singsong tone as he added, _“Tempting him with pleasures of the flesh?”_

__

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Aziraphale chuckled again. “It is a Deadly Sin. Lust.”

Crowley barked another laugh at that. The so-called ‘Deadly Sins’ and ‘Heavenly Virtues’ were among the greatest pieces of propaganda their Head Offices had come up with. As if lust and sloth were always evil in every context, while chastity and diligence were always good. As if human nature could be divided so neatly into two black and white boxes.

But, Crowley was intrigued by this little thought experiment. “What 'bout you? What would you tell Gabriel?" He giggled again. "Tha' you were trying t’save m'soul from damnation? Make me see Heaven’s light and un-demon-ify me?”

In hindsight, he would regret taking a sip of his drink right before Aziraphale answered.

“Nonsense,” said the angel. One could almost hear his smug little grin. “I would’ve told him I was researching how to help him seduce Beelzebub.”

Crowley sprayed his drink everywhere.

Some of it had wound up down his throat mid-swallow, sending him into a coughing fit. He must’ve torn up his throat all over again before he’d caught his breath. _“What?”_

__

__

“Oh, come, now,” the smirking bastard of an angel said mildly, “you must’ve noticed them at the airbase.”

“Noticed _what?”_

__

__

“The way he looked at them. The way they looked at him.”

“Like they wanted to kill each other?”

“Exactly. There was _passion.”_

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Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “As you say.” 

They drank again in silence. Crowley mourned the last swallow, staring down the barrel of his now-empty glass. He was trying to hold onto memories long enough to picture Tadfield Airbase in his mind. He’d spoken to Beelzebub and Gabriel, right? He knew Aziraphale had. They’d been talking to the Antichrist, too. Then they’d turned to talk to each other, and…

His eyes widened in horror. “Oh, I can picture it.”

Aziraphale sighed after his next swallow of whisky. He wasn’t helping.

“Oh,” Crowley groaned, trying to blink away the images rising unbidden into his head, _“I can totally picture it.”_

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Aziraphale handed him the bottle of Trinitas. “Top-off?”

“Yeah,” Crowley grumbled, _“so I can pour it in my fucking eyes.”_

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He did refrain from that course of action (though it was a near thing). He settled for drinking down a few gulps of scotch directly from the bottle. The jolt of the alcohol was enough to remove the worst of the images from his head. He did _not_ need to imagine his and Aziraphale’s former managers sucking each other’s faces off.

“Funny, though,” he said after he’d drunk his fill. He was so close to the bottleneck, he could hear his own voice echo in the nearly-drained bottle. “‘Bout lust.”

“What about it?” asked Aziraphale. It was probably a coincidence his hands were back on Crowley’s shins. Probably.

Crowley levered himself back up, reaching past Aziraphale to replace the bottle and glass on the side table. (The act could’ve been seen as calculated, were he not so drunk he couldn’t plan anything, seductive or otherwise.) “‘Lust ’s’posed to corrupt people, right? Make them want to hump everything that moves.” He leaned in closer to Aziraphale’s mildly amused expression. “But all I did…all _I_ did…was make you want to hump _me.”_ He chuckled to himself. “If anythinnnn, I made you monogamous. Heaven would love that.”

“You didn’t _make_ me do anything,” Aziraphale said as he set aside his own glass. “And I daresay you ended up the same.” 

Crowley arched a brow. He knew as well as Aziraphale how true it was.

Aziraphale cupped his cheek in one hand, his thumb tracing the seam of Crowley’s lips. “Although,” Aziraphale said softly, “lust isn’t the only ‘L' word to describe this.”

Crowley grinned. Never breaking from Aziraphale’s gaze, he pressed a kiss to the pad of the angel’s thumb.

“After all,” Aziraphale continued, “I wouldn’t call you my _lust_ -er.”

Crowley scrunched up his face. The alcohol he’d just downed was starting to catch up to him. “That’s a word, though, innit? ‘Luster’? Means like, shiny, or something.”

“Iridescent.”

“Iri—what?”

“Descent.”

“Tha’ meanssss, like, going down…”

 _“Des-cent. I-ri-de_ …never mind.”

“Whassit?”

“Like your wings.”

Crowley lolled his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. “M’what?”

“Your wings. They’re shiny.”

Crowley snorted into Aziraphale’s neck. “They’re not _shiny,_ they’re _black.”_

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“Yes, like a crow’s! Black, but shiny. Blue, and…and green… _oh…”_

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Crowley had started mouthing at Aziraphale’s neck. Some part of his brain reminded him of the deal they’d made months ago regarding these situations. Rather than negotiating every single act under the sun, they’d agreed on a simple solution: they wouldn’t do anything drunk that they wouldn’t do in public. Kissing and caressing was certainly allowable, even welcomed. But groping, or taking clothes off, or doing anything below the belt, was all off-limits.

“Do you want to sober up?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah,” Crowley slurred. “Just…hold on…”

He knew what he was trying to do in a broad sense: pull Aziraphale closer to him for a bit of a cuddle. Unfortunately, his brain hadn’t decided whether to climb into Aziraphale’s lap, or to pull Aziraphale to lay down next to him on the sofa. He ended up doing a bit of both, wrapping around him and toppling them both over as they squawked in surprise.

“What a graceful serpent,” Aziraphale teased.

 _“Ssssshut it,”_ Crowley hissed back. He knew his eyes had long since gone fully snake-like. To distract from it, he started nibbling kisses on Aziraphale's cheek.

His lips quickly found their match, as Aziraphale met him kiss for kiss, wet and open and so damn _loving_ Crowley nearly floundered for a response. He settled on kissing back in the same spirit. He hummed, pressing closer.

But, all good things must end, and Crowley’s consciousness was beginning to fade out. He grasped onto the kisses and Aziraphale’s arms around him, letting their warmth gradually settle his mind down into an alcohol-laden slumber.

xxx

Crowley groaned. His head was _pounding._ Something far too bright was shining through his closed eyelids. What business did it have shining at this ungodly hour?

(He didn’t know what hour that was, exactly. But he was a demon; any hour involving him could technically be considered ungodly.)

He squeezed his eyes more tightly closed. That did absolutely fuck-all for the brightness. _“Mmpph.”_

__

__

“Oh, you’re awake.”

The voice was a welcome one. The sudden _whooshing_ in the air was not. Crowley winced. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, “right, sorry. Bit loud, I’m afraid.”

“A bit,” Crowley grumbled. He didn’t even know what the whooshing was. It sounded familiar, though. Hard to place, what with the skull-splitting migraine he was coming down with. 

Shit. He hadn’t sobered up last night, had he?

With a strained gunt, Crowley willed the Trinitas out of his cells. It was always more difficult when he’d waited a few hours, as he had to wrest the ethanol molecules away from his liver’s enzymes. Greedy buggers hated to be interrupted when they were metabolizing something.

But a few seconds later, the Trinitas was presumably back in its bottle, and his head was just foggy with sleep inertia instead of a massive hangover. The bright light near his head was only slightly annoying now. Still bright, though.

“Better?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley slumped further into the warmth in front of his face—which he immediately recognized as Aziraphale’s chest. “Mostly,” he muttered.

Aziraphale hummed in sympathy. Crowley soon felt fingers stroking softly through his hair. Okay, the morning was now headed in a much more pleasant direction. He might want to go back to sleep for a few minutes, if it meant he could have a do-over and wake up to _this_ instead. He stretched his body taut, stretched his wings out a bit, before releasing all the tension. Oh, that felt good— 

Wait.

Wings.

_Wings._

__

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He’d stretched out his _wings._

__

__

_Shit. Shit shit shit!_

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How drunk had he been last night?

“Angel?” he said into Aziraphale’s chest. “Why are my wings out?”

The stroking in his hair paused. “Um…I thought you knew? They were out when I woke up, just as mine were.”

Crowley froze from head to toe (and from wingtip to wingtip) at the last four words. A realization prickled across his scalp.

He squinted open his eyes. Sure enough, what he’d thought was a light shining in his eyes was instead the blindingly-white feathers of an angel’s wing.

“Oh,” he said, rather stupidly.

Aziraphale folded his wing back as best he could, what with his back resting against that of the sofa. He shifted some, so he could look Crowley in the eye. He didn’t look as unsure as Crowley thought he might. “Alright?” he asked.

Crowley shrugged, entirely too conscious of the weight of his wings as his shoulders moved. “Yeah. You?”

Aziraphale slowly nodded. He smiled, in an attempt to diffuse the tension. “It’s not like we haven’t seen each other’s.”

Crowley tried to twitch his face in an approximation of a _Sure, I guess, whatever you say_ sort of movement. He wasn’t sure how convincing it was. 

What he was sure of, was how horribly they were each downplaying this moment.

Sure, they’d each _seen_ each other’s wings before. But that was before they’d ever entertained the possibility of doing more than just seeing.

Crowley stiffly levered himself to sit up, his wings flexing behind him without him meaning to. Aziraphale’s did the same as he sat up. Crowley tried not to stare, but bless it, those great white beauties were _mesmerizing._

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But, he did notice both his and Aziraphale’s feathers weren’t the neatest they could’ve been. “Must’ve slept on ‘em funny,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale glanced at their wings. “Yes, they are a bit rumpled.” He shook his feathers out slightly. A bit of white down fell loose from his right wing crest (and Crowley _did not_ track the stray fluff as it fell, and he _did not_ seriously consider pocketing it to keep under his pillow, that would be _absurd)._ But in doing so, he almost missed the way Aziraphale’s eyes were tracing the contours of his own black wings. “I could…” said Aziraphale, “well, if you don’t mind, if it’s not a bother, I could, um…help?”

Crowley darted his eyes back to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale immediately drew back at the look, sheepish. “Terribly sorry, of course, I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“No, _no._ Not imposing. Not a bother.”

“You’re sure?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Of _course_ I’m sure. Here.” He drew his right wing forward, a few inches away from Aziraphale’s hands.

Aziraphale beamed. His hands dithered, though, with those short, staccato bursts they usually jolted in when he was nervous. 

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale met his eyes again. His gratefulness at the reassurance quickly turned into something more sobering, something pure and steadfast. “No,” he said simply. “No, I won’t.”

Something in Crowley’s chest squirmed. It felt a little like relief.

But before he could think too hard on that, Aziraphale’s fingers were stroking his feathers.

The angel worked slowly, methodically combing through every covert, across every secondary, down every primary. Crowley shivered with every soft touch. _Keratin,_ his brain supplied. _Same as hair and skin. Sensitive, just like your scalp._

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But deep down, he knew it was more than that.

“That’s what I meant,” Aziraphale said. He’d been working in silence for several minutes, so the sudden noise beyond their own quiet breaths nearly made Crowley jump. “Iridescent. They change colors in the light. You see?”

Crowley looked at what Aziraphale was showing him. His friend had several of his long, black primaries spread flat across his palm. As he tilted his hand, the feathers gleamed in the morning light, a shifting mosaic of warm reds and brilliant greens dancing within the black.

However many hundreds of times Crowley had groomed his own wings, he’d never noticed that detail before. Comparatively, it had taken Aziraphale all of _two_ instances of seeing his wings to notice it.

“They always reminded me of the night sky,” Aziraphale said. He almost didn’t look like he was conscious of saying it. Just slipped out.

That didn’t help Crowley remember to keep breathing as Aziraphale moved to his left wing.

Certain physical stimuli could produce inevitable responses. Tickle Crowley’s nose, and it would make him want to sneeze. Stroke his cock, and it would make him want to come. Show him a picture of Hastur, and it would make him want to vomit. (Please don’t do all three to him in a row; a demon can only take so much emotional whiplash.)

Groom his wings, and it would make him want to shiver, curl up in a puddly ball, and relax so deeply he forgot what the word _stress_ even meant.

What Crowley ended up doing was curl closer to Aziraphale, lean his head on a broad shoulder, and shudder pleasantly at every pass of his friend’s fingers. As much as he tried to watch him work, his lids soon started to droop, as the sensations plugged directly into a center of his brain analogous to a cat’s purr.

He knew why this was happening. He wasn’t saying it, and Aziraphale wasn’t saying it, but they both knew.

It brought back some far-flung scrap of a memory. Another hand grooming his wings, a hand containing more love than the universe could fathom. A voice that encompassed his entire being, softly crooning to him:

_I love you, My child._

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His voice had answered, though it belonged to someone with a different name, a different job, and a different life:

_I love You too, Mother._

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An angel’s wings, Fallen or otherwise, were sacred. Made for evoking love. She had designed them that way.

And regardless of what else had happened to Crowley since someone had last groomed his wings…he had never lost that response.

He slowly emerged from the trance when he felt lips press against his temple. The hands he trusted more than anyone’s had left his feathers, to caress his face instead.

He opened his eyes. Aziraphale was right there, smiling. Crowley lazily smiled back.

“Want me to do yours?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened. “Only if you’d like, of course.”

“Would _you_ like?”

He knew what Aziraphale’s answer was going to be even before he silently nodded. He’d seen that pleading look in those angelic eyes so many times over the centuries.

He’d never once decided to resist them.

So, he slithered to the other side of the sofa, facing Aziraphale’s back. On a whim, he decided to work his fingers up the knots in Aziraphale’s spine first, kneading from his lower back, up to where feathers emerged from his waistcoat. He thrilled at Aziraphale’s gasp as he worked the kinks out.

He didn’t do many things reverently. He supposed he cared for his Bentley in that manner. In his heart of hearts, he treated Aziraphale that way, too, and though they were each often _deliberately_ irreverent in how they interacted, the way he touched Aziraphale’s body often betrayed the tender side of him.

All of it paled in comparison to how he first brushed his fingers through Aziraphale’s wings.

He, too, went slowly. Not just out of reverence, though, but because Aziraphale’s feathers had fared far worse in the night than his own. “Might take a while,” he said.

Aziraphale huffed a laugh (though it also sounded suspiciously like a sigh). “Next time, _you_ can sleep between me and the sofa cushions.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The teasing had loosened the atmosphere considerably—and Crowley’s tongue along with it. “Bet you’re more used to this than me, though.”

“How so?” 

“Well, us demons had to learn to preen ourselves. Don’t trust each other, see.”

Aziraphale’s feathers shifted. “Ah. That does make sense.” A pause. “But you don’t have to trust a _demon_ with it, now, do you?”

Crowley grinned. “Guess not.” 

Another pause. Crowley’s fingers made little _swishing_ sounds as he stroked through white feathers. “Still, for you,” he said, “tell me if there’s something you’re used to. I’m adaptable.”

Aziraphale turned his head slightly. “What would I be used to?”

Crowley scoffed. “What, like there’s no mutual grooming sessions in Heaven?” he teased.

Aziraphale chuckled lightly. “I wouldn’t know.”

Crowley’s fingers paused. It was only for a breath, but he knew Aziraphale had noticed.

He didn’t dwell on what those three words could mean for Aziraphale’s experiences over the years. Best case scenario, he’d always arrived too late for the quarterly grooming parties, and had happily tended to his own wings once he’d returned to the privacy of his home.

The worst case scenario, and the exclusion or abandonment that it implied, didn’t bear thinking about. So Crowley didn’t.

Instead, he continued caressing Aziraphale’s wings. The only difference was, this time he was even gentler than before.

It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to react the same way Crowley had. He leaned back against Crowley’s chest, leaning his head against his friend’s with a deep sigh. Crowley let his hands work on autopilot. Instead of watching Aziraphale’s wings, he watched the soul-deep relaxation and serenity on his best friend’s face.

He finished soon enough. Aziraphale’s feathers were immaculate once more, not a vane out of place. The peaceful angel had never looked more angelic.

Crowley kissed his cheek. Aziraphale flexed his wings, shook himself out of the trance with a sleepy grunt. When his eyes met Crowley’s, he quickly matched his smile with one just as radiant. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Crowley met him in a kiss, chaste but lingering. “Coffee?” Crowley asked between their lips.

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, “if you don’t mind.”

Crowley flicked a wing forward, to brush his primaries down the side of Aziraphale’s face. A gesture as playful as it was tender.

Aziraphale laughed with the sheer joy of it. They helped each other up from the sofa, and headed for the kitchen. They proceeded to joke and laugh over their coffee for the rest of the morning.

They kept their wings out the entire time.


End file.
